


The Harbour Becomes the Sea

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:23:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I can’t,” John breathes again, pained because he does <i>so</i> want to taste Sherlock. To be this close and come away with <i>nothing</i> will be a tragedy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Harbour Becomes the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing explicit Sherlock/John so all comments and constructive criticism are more than welcome.
> 
> Title nabbed from the inspiration for this piece, "The Water," by Feist. (Equal credit for the completion of this piece to Feist's "The Park," because of reasons.)
> 
> Many thanks to Robyn for her input on this piece.

“I can’t explain,” John breathes against his neck, breath puffing out moist against the taut skin. Sherlock is positively thrumming and his carotid is just a millimeter from John’s teeth and he can’t. Can’t explain. Can’t try to explain the compulsion to sink his teeth in and taste. Taste the movement of blood through veins, taste the sound that would surely rumble through Sherlock’s vocal chords.

Sherlock clears his throat and keeps the hand that is at John’s hip _solidly_ on John’s hip. “You must,” Sherlock tells him and for a moment, John believes this to be true. There has to be a justification behind the thrills that are running through him, how his heart positively plummets and spikes with every breath this man takes. There have to be words he can lend to exactly what is going through his mind, sizzling in his veins, consuming his heart.

“I can’t,” John breathes again, pained because he does _so_ want to taste Sherlock. To be this close and come away with _nothing_ will be a tragedy. He’s live-wire electrified but has a soldier’s restraint and thus will not give in until Sherlock is absolutely certain that he wants to do so.

There’s a set in his shoulders and a tensity in his hands that tells John that he is not. An explanation, that’s all this man is asking of him, a thorough, well-thought reason as to why John so badly wants to simply take him to bed.

Not simply; it won’t be simply. It will be messy and complicated and John will positively die if this is a singular occurrence. John cannot face the possibility of a future without this man, a person who has so suffused himself in John’s life that to imagine a future without him is wholly unfathomable.

Perhaps that’s it, John thinks. ‘A future without you is unfathomable,’ but no, that doesn’t encompass the multitude of feelings welling within him, the actual white-hot desire to spread his hands over Sherlock’s chest and feel his heartbeat, take his cock into his mouth just to _taste_ , just to hear what Sherlock _sounds_ like in abandon.

A thumb slips over a belt loop; that act alone has John sharply sucking in his breath, shuddering to lean his forehead against Sherlock’s neck. So warm, he’s so warm. To look at him one would believe that someone so statuesque would be smooth and cool but Sherlock is burning up.

John, then, is too.

“John, this is not...” And he stops, because perhaps this is something that he too cannot find words for. There are explanations, John is sure he could come up with many if he weren’t so dizzy with desire and so intensely consumed with the need to prove his love (but something far beyond that, too, so far, far beyond) with his hands and lips and teeth and cock.

All of this, a result of the temperature being spiked just a tad too high for May, another chase through the back alleys of London’s underbelly, a stray bullet, glanced off of a brick wall that had whizzed by John’s head and John had decided, in that moment, in the cliched manner of so many tortured protagonists to take stock of everything that he had to lose.

The list of things that would have to go unsaid if he were to catch that bullet in the temple and fall.

Unacceptable.

A long cab ride back to Baker Street, both taking far too long to gather their breathing back under control and John shucking his jacket, tossing it in a corner and marching straight into Sherlock’s personal space. His nose raised to touch Sherlock’s jawline and the man hadn’t moved and so he leaned in and _breathed_ , breathed Sherlock’s air and struggled with _the words_.

_”John...”_

_“I can’t...”  
_

But he can and he will, just not now, not when it will come out completely wrong and backwards. All topsy-turvy. Sherlock will leave that to his flatmate.

John needs time to ink out what’s on his heart. It’s far too complicated (nearly Sanskrit insofar as it is foreign) for a brash, spur-of-the-moment admission and so John says nothing, admits nothing.

He brings his arms up, along Sherlock’s back to hold against the underside of his shoulder blades and says, “I can’t say it, _now_. But I will.”

Sherlock needs something to go on, John knows, of course he does. They both do, a give and take quid pro quo. Even as the analytical side is stripped away and something of the man is revealed, he still requires some grounds as to why he should go through with this, just as anyone would, why he should uncover, reveal, explore all of the grating emotion welling within him.

It’s a sign, just another morsel that proves the riddle of Sherlock’s humanity. Dear god, it’s like unravelling an infinity of _enigma_ and John sees the draw in that, the thrill. There’s an understand of what runs through Sherlock in his instances of enlightenment.

Because Sherlock’s body and mind is to John what a dangling mystery is to Sherlock. This, this John immediately wants to put voice to, that he finally comprehends, that it’s brilliant. He wants to get his hands on this man, unravel him, _prove_ that he can unravel him.

There’s so much within him now, hoping to burst forth, take precedence in his queue of “thoughts and feelings.” John is embarrassed and overcome, terribly sad and overwhelming elated and something to the tune of a one-thousand and fifteen different things, but as they all manage to wage a war for dominance they form the butterflies in his stomach.

They cause the twitch in his tongue and the hitch in his breath.

Sherlock’s chin dips just a fraction and snaps back up, front and center and it takes John several long seconds to realize that the gesture is a nod. A movement of assent.

John can’t, moves back, fingertips sliding down against the expensive silk, seeking out the curves of Sherlock’s ribs. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments and then, a flash, his lips rough against Sherlock’s neck.

“Later,” Sherlock growls and hesitates a moment with his hand fluttering against John’s hip. A second, and two and Sherlock sucks just a bit and his hand flies up into sandy blond hair and _tugs_.

John sighs, _Yes_.

A voice shouts down at him, ‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ and his lips are being dragged against perfectly smooth skin and his hands move of their own accord and John thinks, “This is no different, this is no different,” and he thinks, “This is _Sherlock_ ” and it’s somehow independent of anything else he has ever experienced.

An impatience sinks into his bones and there’s a need for everything, all at once and a gnawing at the base of his spine to simply take nails to cloth and tear off clothes. The faster to feel, the easier to cope, John thinks. Maybe. But no, that’s not how it works.

Sherlock’s breath hiccoughs and he finds himself suddenly participating. “Jumper,” he says and his fingers (oh, fuck, they’re shaking too, a staccato timpani, damn) tug at the oatmeal jumper; his knuckles graze the skin of John’s stomach.

The sweater lands somewhere in the vicinity of the refrigerator (possibly on top of it.)

Oh no, no fuck. Fantasy, in these instances, no matter how many one reminds oneself that fantasy compares to reality... “Fuck, stop, no, no.” And John shakes his head and takes a step back and it’s overwhelming.

So poetic, and it’s sappy and completely the opposite what he needs right now, but it is. Poetic. Like drowning. John won’t say it, but he can’t _breathe_ for all he’s feeling.

Sherlock takes a moment to compose himself (no, NO!) and John swallows and breathes and doesn’t really think about himself, but about his sheets and if there’s protection and the actual fact that Sherlock was (in the past, past, past) a drug user and oh, damn. That, in-the-moment complication when someone has to make the first move and set things back in a forward motion.

A lick of his lips and her shakes out his hair, Sherlock meets his eyes and demands, “Well?”

It’s acceptable to simply _feel_ right now and that’s wonderful because he’s stepping into Sherlock and pressing his lips to the other man’s and it’s-

It is-

Sweet jesus, Sherlock’s tongue is the brazen one and slides into John’s mouth, not in a practiced way but in a manner that is incredibly eager and hungry. Hands, John’s hands, grip at Sherlock’s back even as his skin from his hair to his nape to slide beneath the waist of his trousers.

There are no questions of “Are you, have you, were you,” because impossibly the trust that has grown between them is enough. Panting, John leans into the eager mouth before him, feeling the heat prick his skin, the beading sweat at his nape and brow. He is standing shirtless and finds that unacceptable, works his fingers at the frustrating buttons of Sherlock’s shirt even as he continues to kiss him.

It’s the last button that gives him the most pause and after a few moments struggling with it, Sherlock bats his hand away, undoes it on his own. Again, they are left face to face and panting, room for words and still none spoken. A bit of pressure against his neck and nails against his skin, down, over the curve of his shoulder and it is _exquisite_.

“Come,” Sherlock says (it’s a demand, again, really, and John actually almost does, right there) and he moves past John, tails of his Oxford flapping behind him as he paces through the living room and into his own bedroom. John follows and reminds himself that he’s never been in here, not properly, not really. There is the color on the walls and the overall sparse and clean nature of the room but John can’t seem to process any of that because Sherlock takes it upon himself to divest his torso of the aubergine Oxford and toss it on the floor.

John watches it float down to the carpeting, attempts not to think. But he can’t _not_ and that terrible joke, “That shirt looks good but if would look even better on my floor,” comes to mind and Sherlock purses his lips as John chuckles. Of course he knows.

“Really, John?” and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him and Sherlock smiles briefly before he steps forth and takes John back in his arms, pressing their chests together, their mouths meeting once more.

It’s not that he’s no longer nervous or uncertain, but the way that mouth meets mouth, he forgets from moment to moment. John remembers, forgets, lets his body dictate all of the movements, hopes that his higher reason, his logic won’t speak up and trip him.

“Sherlock,” he begins and is so grateful when he is given pause.

“Don’t _speak_ ,” comes a plea, forehead against John’s. “Later,” Sherlock reminds.

Thing is, he’s never been so _sure_ before, sure of where the brimming want should take him. John Watson has never been promiscuous, but he hasn’t found it difficult in locating bed mates, romancing and pleasing them. But this, _this_ , trusting someone this thoroughly-to his _marrow_ and further, on a cellular level-was positively stunning.

_He doesn’t know what to do but he does,_

_It’s Sherlock._

_He does.  
_

Head tilted back, John slips the button through it’s give and pulls down, giving Sherlock enough room to divest himself of his trousers. Sherlock is a bit caught up and when he goes to kick off his pants he realizes he still has his shoes on and rolls his eyes, falls back onto his bed.

John is blinded. He spills out all blissfully ivory skin and John closes his eyes, swallows, begins making quick work of his own trousers, toes off his shoes and socks as not to stumbled as Sherlock has.

The other man rolls his eyes and reaches out, long fingers slipping beneath the waistband of John’s boxers. The moment of no return, some might say but John is so ready to have them _off_ , off and have this moment over with. “Sherlock,” he means to ask but begs and Sherlock hooks an ankle around his calf and pulls him in a step closer.

Clad only in his boxer briefs, Sherlock glances up at him from beneath his mussed fringe and gives the closest thing to a coy smile that John has ever seen from the man. In a moment, his boxers are gone and John can’t even relish in the moment being over because Sherlock leans forward and brushes his cheek against the mottled purple head of John cock.

“Christ, dear... fuck, fuck,” John stutters and his fingers fit perfect in Sherlock’s soft curls. The contact is wet electric but does not compare to the feeling of Sherlock’s tongue circling the head, dipping down to slide against the thick vein beneath. And the humming, Sherlock’s humming vibrates along his length and John thinks-

_I’m dying._

“Fuck, I’m dying,” he groans and tightens his fingers around the tendrils to find purchase.

Sherlock hums once more, takes him into his mouth fully, moving his mouth until John bottoms out against the back of his throat. A few gentle sucks and Sherlock shucks off of him, “Oh no, John,” he says. “You’re very much _alive_.”

John sucks in gulps of air and glances down at Sherlock; it looks as though he’s been thoroughly tossed by a whirlwind. Color high in his cheeks causing a stark contrast to the porcelain hue of his skin and John needs to view another contrast. “Oh, stuff it,” John growls and uses his current height advantage to shove against Sherlock’s shoulders.

The man falls back against the mattress with a bounce and perks himself up on an elbow quickly, shoving his hair out of his eyes. When their gaze meets, John advances, clambering onto the bed, knees on either side of Sherlock’s thighs. Dipping in, John makes to nip at Sherlock’s lips while simultaneously knocking Sherlock’s elbow out from under him, sending him back, flat against the duvet.

Their lips part.

Sherlock growls in frustration, fists slamming into the softness beneath him. “John-” he grinds out just as he leans down and brushes his cock against Sherlock’s still-clothed hardness.

“Oh, oh, I.... jeeeeeeeesus,” comes the shiver and he has to stop for a moment, put it’s world back on axis. He maneuvers his weight onto one hand and draws the other over his face.

“John?” Sherlock asks beneath him, still aggravated, still unbelievably passioned but worried.

Another breath, this time quick, through his teeth and John shakes it off, presses his hand into Sherlock’s open palm. “Fine, fine. I’m fine.”

This should be too much, it should be something that consumes and _terrifies_ him but his mind is oddly at peace with this step. A small part of him had entertained the notion of having his flatmate naked and eager beneath him. He’d certainly been open to the crushing, fall his emotions had tumbled through en route to this pseudo-rapture he feels currently.

There’s nothing in him that is inherent when it comes to touching another man’s body but John knows what he wants to _feel_ and what he wants to _taste_ and everything else is extraneous at this point. So...

John touches, traces the dip and curve of Sherlock’s hip with a care he wasn’t sure he would have possessed in such a moment.

“Good,” Sherlock responds, bucks into John quickly, deservedly and moves a hand to the waistband of his briefs, presses them south until physics makes it impossible to go any further. Sherlock does not ask for help, does not have to; John falls to his hip, uses his hand to push the fabric far enough down Sherlock’s leg that he can kick them off.

Head falling back in relief, Sherlock doesn’t see when John dips his head, kisses against the crest of his hip. The resulting gasp is all the sweeter and John doesn’t even try to stifle the moan that sings out of him; his teeth glance against the taut skin until he reaches Sherlock’s cock, begging for attention, scarlet against alabaster.

Thumbs dip into the hollows of Sherlock’s hips and John takes a moment to just _look_. Biceps to hairline to the tip of the nose to his bellybone and down to Sherlock’s cock and in that moment his mouth goes completely dry.

John brushes his fingers against the underside of Sherlock’s cock and the other man shudders, shudders so thoroughly that the bed jostles. “Christ,” comes the harsh whisper and Sherlock’s hands fist in the duvet, come up to swipe over his eyes, reach down and fist in John’s hair. That response, well, it spurs John on, index finger swiping at the bit of precome that remains pearly just below Sherlock’s bellybutton.

There’s a void in his mind, no forethought when he brings his index finger up to his mouth and-

 _Tastes_.

Eyes sliding closed he processes the truth that he is _tasting_ Sherlock, he has Sherlock in his mouth and it is bloody fantastic, brilliant, out of body. Beneath him Sherlock’s body is no longer humming, he is stock still and John’s eyes slide open, catch the other man’s gaze.

Without breaking their eye contact, Sherlock grabs at John’s forearm, slides his fingers down to his wrist and slips John’s index finger into his own mouth and sucks.

If there could be a moment of combustion, a moment when logic is no longer applicable, when there is no conscious thought, when _all the cards fall_ it is then, it is John seeing Sherlock taste his own come on John’s hand.

With no finesse, he slides his body down against Sherlock, chest to chest and settles his lips against the other man’s. “Oh god, oh god,” comes the repetition against Sherlock’s mouth. Messy, lips and tongues and John essentially loses the ability to control the situation. Movement becomes sluggish and all he can focus on is skin-skin-skin and the way that Sherlock’s hips pivot against his.

But it’s not enough, the easy friction of John rutting against him, it’s not enough.

In John dips his head against the side of Sherlock’s neck and the taller man takes the opportunity to flip them, John’s back flush against the bed.

“Bully,” John breathes and Sherlock laughs desperately into the damp skin of the shorter man’s chest.

Sherlock chuckles breathlessly and dips his mouth to skim over John’s collarbone. The other man’s hands clutch at his back for a moment they buck helplessly against one another, neither finding a suitable rhythm.

Sherlock pauses, shimmies a bit further down John’s body and rolls his right nipple gently between his teeth. The sounds pause in John’s throat; it’s all a bit much and the moment stretches and hangs in his mind. John can’t breathe, can’t think, he feels perfect. He feels the bodily amalgamation of perfection.

His chest heaves with _everything_. Emotional, the verbal confirmation of the overwhelming totality of what he feels _for this one man_. But there’s no time, no time to even ponder that as Sherlock reaches down and wraps his hand messily around the both of their cocks.

“Oh, oh, Sher-Sherlock.”

“Yes,” the other man confirms, presses their foreheads together and adds pressure, moves his palm against their cocks harder, faster.

John tilts his head, juts out his chin, _begs_ for a kiss. Sherlock gives in, willingly, their tongues pressing in counter rhythm to their hips. “Can’t explain,” John reiterates as the pressure threatens to take him under.

Sherlock breathes out an answer and they move together, fluidly, clutching against one another. John manuevers his hand between then and takes over for Sherlock. The feeling of the two of them together, hot, heavy, needy. Everyone color, coalescing together, expanding and imploding and _this is a feeling he never ever wants to stop experiencing_. And oh, oh, oh, the taste-texture-touch- _sound_ of every inch of Sherlock, John realizes now that it is something he had no idea he was missing so _desperately_.

“Your thoughts are deafening,” Sherlock whispers desperately against John’s lips. “It’s brilliant.”

“Please, please, Sherlock-”

“Hush,” his voice stutters out of him. “Hush, and come.”

John’s eyes snap open and their gaze meets. Pupils blown wide, body singing with an inevitable completion, but he can’t miss this, he can’t miss Sherlock’s face when he comes.

A trickle of sweat rolls from Sherlock’s temple, over his cheekbone and lingers at his chin for a fraction of a second before slipping off to land against John’s sternum.

John comes. He comes so hard he can feel it in his _teeth_.

And in that instant it’s ocean in his ears and cresting a wave and crashing and falling and Sherlock jerks against him, comes. It’s hot against John’s stomach and the sensation wars with that of Sherlock’s cock literally shuddering, coming, against his.

“Brilliant,” John whispers, carding his hand through Sherlock’s hair as he jerks one last time and stills. He waits a beat, two and then collapses just off-center of John’s chest. Another beat and he turns onto his back, reaches across to his bedside table and produces a handkerchief. John doesn’t move, doesn’t speak as Sherlock cleans him up.

When he’s through, Sherlock leans in and presses a kiss to the patch of skin where previously their come had pooled.

It’s undeniably sexy and John feels a stirring within him. If he were ten years younger perhaps, but the mere idea that he is so easily turned on by Sherlock is... comforting. He’s comforted now, in the afterglow. A sense of calm, really, comes over him and he’s glad that they don’t move, that they don’t speak, that they both comes back down to themselves against the sheets they have to thoroughly mussed.

It’s... quite nice.

Somewhere in the space between wake and sleep, in Sherlock’s bed, he begins thinking once again of the how, the why, the reasoning behind this, behind the sudden _them_.

To his right, Sherlock stirs, stands and roughly pulls at the bedclothes; John shifts and turns, allows the other man to toss the blankets over him and still, he doesn’t move, too embroiled in dense thoughts.

He watches John for a moment, the light and dark playing on his face and finally speaks “There is an explanation, John,” Sherlock says, gathering the bedding to his chin, snuggling down into the bed. “You understand that it doesn’t need to be said.”

Their gaze meets for one last moment-an air of slight uncertainty still lingering and of course. It’s not simply all going to fall into place because they’ve had sex, because they’re raw and they’re bonded. There are things to be said, that need to be said but perhaps it doesn’t need to be _explained_.

Sherlock gives him a sharp nod, reaches out to touch John’s hip and closes his eyes.  
John will remain awake all evening and he’s sure that Sherlock knows that, but it feels completely wonderful lying next to him, feeling Sherlocks fingertips curl into his naked hip.


End file.
